


Exploiting the Internal Anatomy of a Soldier

by johnnymarvel



Category: Rambo, Rambo Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-25 05:15:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14371689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnnymarvel/pseuds/johnnymarvel
Summary: Set after the events of First Blood, First Blood Part II, & Rambo III. Colonel Samuel Trautman pays John Rambo a visit to invite him to his retirement party, leading to more than either person had anticipated. Accompanying are narrative flashbacks to events that unfolded earlier & during the Vietnam War. A bit NSFW.





	Exploiting the Internal Anatomy of a Soldier

FOREWORD  
The brain is the most annoying part of the human body.  
It’s hard to understand.   
It’s hard to dissect.  
Only zombies and sapiosexuals can truly love the brain.  
I don’t know right from wrong. Nobody does.   
Everybody has their own idea of a perfect world,   
Regardless of whether their idea is ruled by violence or by love.  
There may be similar ideals, but never identical;  
The brain is too fiercely independent to form a thought process  
Identical to that of another.  
I consider myself an egalitarian.  
I try not to judge others,   
But it’s hard,  
Because I know for sure that others are judging me.  
I believe that in no matter what I do,   
I am isolated, for I am too afraid of attachment to truly befriend others,  
And I fear that it is for this reason that I will never have a true best friend,   
Somebody who will never leave me, someone who will always turn to me.  
I always feel like I am being chosen second, or as an alternative option,  
And that I am that one person in a group of close friends  
Who is constantly excluded, and feels uncomfortable in being alone with others.   
However, I have come to accept that this IS the way it will always be.  
There is no use in trying to alter the inevitable.  
I AM EXPENDABLE.

 

1974.  
“Everyone loves a good story.”  
Rambo flipped the page in his comic book, then coughed out a cloud of smoke— he was new to the smoking game, after all; the only reason he’d even picked it up in the first place was due to stress. Too much damn stress. Half of Trautman’s command was missing, & the other half was God-knows-where, hiding in the bushes, or in the trees, or anywhere where they felt they couldn’t be shot. You couldn’t tell by the stiff expression the Colonel wore at all times, but he was scared— or so Rambo liked to think. It helped humanise that big wall of commands….  
….as if Rambo was one to talk about humanity, being one of the most successful members of the Green Berets, having had killed more men than most serial killers could dream of. Rambo didn’t like to think of himself as a killer. He thought of himself as a hero, but the more blood he got on his hands, the less it felt like it. 

“I don’t,” Trautman replied, peering at something in the distance through binoculars. “People are always sticking their noses in these fucking… fairy tales, while they should be more damn preoccupied with the present at hand.” Rambo furrowed his brows, shoving the comic into his rucksack. “Jesus. Sorry.” Trautman shook his head. “You’re fine— Rambo… just, this damn war…. It’s got me worried, to tell you the truth.” RAMBO SWALLOWED. HE HATED TO HEAR UNCERTAINTY IN ANYONE’S VOICE, ESPECIALLY IN THAT OF HIS OWN LEADER. THIS IS THE CURSE OF A FOLLOWER.   
“You—— you don’t think we’re gonna win this war, do you, Colonel?”  
Trautman turned around, the binoculars hanging limply from his wrist. “You’re awful talkative today, John.”  
Feeling accused, Rambo looked away, head hung. “Sorry, Colonel.”  
HE NEVER GOT A RESPONSE.

1982\. 

RAMBO’S SMILE FELL AS THE WOMAN GLOWERED AT HIM & HIS PHOTOGRAPH— that fucking photograph!   
HE FANCIED HIMSELF AN EMOTIONLESS MONSTER, REPEATED IT DAILY AS A MORNING MANTRA— TRYING TO CONVINCE HIMSELF TO MAKE THE PAIN OF HIS EMOTIONS SUBSIDE. This never worked, & that photograph reminded him of it. He still loved his comrades in arms. He had particularly fond memories with some of them— memories that, if projected onto a screen in front of some of the higher-ups, would have gotten his ass a dishonourable discharge & a good shaming. Despite this, he was unashamed of them.

THE VIETNAM WAR HAD GOTTEN DELMAR BARRY, said the woman to whom he spoke. He wasn’t killed in the line of duty— cancer got him, an ugly side effect that had not been listed on the prescriptions label when the man entered the war. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Rambo murmured, not sure if he was more sorry for himself or the woman. “You can keep the photograph.” HE WONDERED HOW SAM WOULD REACT TO THE NEWS.

HE WOULD FIND OUT LATER, AFTER BEING TRAPPED IN A MINESHAFT WHILE TRYING TO ESCAPE SOME HICK POLICE. TRAUTMAN WOULD SPEAK TO HIM OVER THE WALKIE TALKIE RAMBO STOLE FROM THE POLICE— NOBODY BUT THE RATS IN THE SEWER WERE AWARE OF THIS, BUT THE SOUND OF TRAUTMAN’S VOICE MADE THE EX-SOLDIER HARD; THAT NIGHT, HE DREAMT OF AN AFFAIR HE’D HAD WITH A WOMAN IN VIETNAM.

1989\. 

Trautman had a way of worming his way back into Rambo’s life—   
In 1985, he got him out of prison (what do you expect to happen if you wreak havoc on a town because the police didn’t treat ya nice?), then sent him on his merry way to Vietnam.   
In 1988, he got his ass captured; Rambo went to Afghanistan to save him. That was saying something in itself: he’d refused to go to Afghanistan just to help with the war effort (I’M NOT A SOLDIER ANYMORE! I’VE LEFT THAT LIFE BEHIND! BLAH BLAH BLAH!), but would risk his ass to save Trautman. He’d held hope—

— & his hope finally paid off.

JUNE.

“I’m in retirement.”  
“I figured as much.”  
Rambo barely so much as looked at Trautman as the Colonel stood by his door, hat in his hand. “I’m retiring in a few months myself, John— I’ve had more than my twenty owed years, & that pension is looking very sweet.”  
“I’m sure it is.”

Rambo lie sprawled across the deck of his tiny house— a deck, with no pool. The house had cost only twenty thousand or so dollars; it was thanks to Trautman he could even afford it. IF IT HADN’T BEEN FOR TRAUTMAN, HE WOULD HAVE CONTINUED AS A DRIFTER ‘TIL HE DIED.   
Sweat beaded on and dripped down his bronze skin, forming tiny pools that quickly evaporated on the faux-wood surface. 

SILENCE.   
AWKWARD SILENCE.

“Do you— do you want something, Trautman?”  
Trautman fiddled with the hat in his hands, then cleared his throat. “Well, I plan to have my retirement party on August the twenty-ninth… not going to be very big, just a few family members, friends from the army… I would have invited my men from Vietnam, but…” His smile grew forced; he fiddled furthermore. “...well, you’re the only one left, John.”  
Finally, Rambo looked at Trautman, his dark brown eyes void, nearly emotionless as he drilled his gaze into the other’s. “I’m the only one left.”  
Trautman nodded shortly.  
“....and you came all the way out to the middle of fucking nowhere Nevada to find me.”  
Trautman’s smile grew stiffer still; sweat beaded his forehead, but not so much from the sun as from nervousness.

1973: A MEMORY RAMBO HAD WHILE LOOKING INTO TRAUTMAN’S EYES

TWO ANIMALS, WILD IN THE WOODS.  
“We’re gonna— we’re gonna get in trouble if anyone sees us, uh… doin’ this, Colonel.”  
Trautman smiled, propped up on one elbow as he ran his fingers through Rambo’s wavy bundle of hair. Both men were shirtless and pantless, clad only in army-green boxers. “My boy— for such an extraordinary mind, you worry far too much. We’re in the middle of nowhere— the other men are out on their own mission; we have this space all to ourselves!” Rambo nervously smiled, though you could barely call that a smile, a flat line with two slightly upturned ends. 

He said nothing more as Trautman lie on top of him, massaging Rambo’s shoulders before one hand traced across his pectorals, then down his abdomen, then down, down, down, to the soldier’s crotch, which he grabbed. Rambo grunted, squirming a tiny bit, & almost moaned as Trautman slipped his hand under the boxers’ fabric— however, the man’s lips crashing down on his silenced him. They kissed for what felt like forever [in the best possible way] but was truthfully only a minute or two, & Trautman cupped Rambo’s cheek, rubbing his flesh between his thumb & index finger. This action was mirrored with his other hand, the one mapping out the soldier’s crotch, causing Rambo to bite his lip, squirming again.   
Trautman grinned, receding. “What, are you a virgin?”  
Rambo’s lack of reply told him all he needed to do— he could imagine the man blushing like a goddamn schoolgirl, cheeks going burgundy red like a finely aged wine. Trautman smiled proudly down at Rambo as though the man were a conquest, then spat on his palms. “Don’t worry too much— I don’t hurt.” HE HAD A GOOD TRACK RECORD, WITH MEN & WOMEN. “Turn over.” Rambo batted his lashes, flustering. “What?”  
“Turn over—  
—I’m about to show you something they don’t teach in military school.”

JUNE, RETURNING TO RAMBO’S LYING ON THE DECK WHILE TRAUTMAN AWAITS HIS REPLY

“Look, John—— if you don’t want to come, that’s perfectly alright by me; I just—”  
“No, it’s alright, Trautman….. I’ll come. I’m guessin’ you don’t have any invitations, though…”  
Trautman’s face lit up; he reached into the pocket of his khaki pants. “Why, as a matter of fact, I did—” He pulled out what looked more like a business card than an invitation, placing it on Rambo’s stomach. Rambo plucked the card & finally got up, running his fingers through his hair. Trautman shook his head. “You know—— you haven’t changed a bit, John, not from the first moment I saw you. You haven’t changed your hair, your look, your attitude…” He chuckled. “& I thought I was stubborn.”  
John shrugged, slipping the card into his own pocket. “Some people never change.” HE WAS ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE.   
“They don’t,” Trautman murmured, placing a hand on Rambo’s thigh. He couldn’t help but to smile when he felt the muscles tense under his touch; the smile grew as he ran his hand slowly up, to the inner thigh right below Rambo’s crotch. Rambo’s breath hitched as he looked between the hand & Trautman’s face. 

YOU ARE NOT EMOTIONLESS.  
YOU STILL HAVE FEELINGS FOR THE COLONEL, YOU FEELSY BASTARD!  
YOU FEEL LIKE A VIRGIN ALL OVER AGAIN AS TRAUTMAN TAKES YOUR HAND & LEADS YOU INTO YOUR OWN HOUSE, TO YOUR OWN BEDROOM (WHICH HE FINDS THROUGH TRIAL & ERROR, TOO PRIDEFUL TO ASK.)  
THIS DOES NOT FEEL REAL.

EVERY TIME SOMEONE CARES FOR YOU, OR SOMETHING EXCITING, WONDERFUL, OR TERRIBLE HAPPENS TO YOU, YOU TRY TO CONVINCE YOURSELF IT’S FAKE.  
TO SOME EXTENT, YOU MANAGE TO CONVINCE YOURSELF; THAT’S HOW YOU MADE IT THROUGH THE VIETNAM WAR.  
You still can’t convince yourself that you’re a good person. 

Rambo & Trautman both were silent as Trautman managed to lift Rambo, in all his muscle-bound glory, onto the bed. This time, Rambo was more prepared than he’d been in Vietnam. “There’s— there’s condoms, lubricant, in my dresser…. top drawer, under the war comics.”  
Trautman smiled down at him with this— this loving, peculiar look in his eye, before he slapped him playfully on the thigh, getting up to retrieve said items. “You still read those things?” He asked, as he prepared himself, watching Rambo’s expressions through the cracked, dusty mirror above the dresser. IT WAS SO CUTE, HOW TAKEN ABACK RAMBO SEEMED BY THE INQUIRY. The response was simple: “Yeah. Keeps me from getting bored.”   
Trautman jumped up on bed next to him, wrapping his arms around the man’s sides. “Hope you don’t whip one out right now, then.”  
John felt an erection growing already; he hated himself for his lack of control. Could the man help it? Truthfully, he hadn’t fucked since somewhere in the seventies— a good decade ago. The condoms & lube were items he'd carried with him, place to place, travel to travel... IN CASE HE EVER GOT LUCKY.  
He wasn’t that old, but he felt it.   
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Trautman’s hands went their own separate ways; one trailed down to Rambo’s ass, while the other crawled up to his neck, pulling the man close. Rambo started placing kisses by Trautman’s collarbone, & the colonel looked to the heavens as the kisses traveled up his neck, lips eventually landing on the other’s. Wanting to absorb as much of the man as he could, Rambo opened his mouth slightly, allowing Trautman’s tongue to glide in like a snake, feeling around & colliding with his every once in a while. 

THE LOVE— OR PERHAPS, THE LUST— THE TWO MEN SHARED WITH ONE ANOTHER WAS BEYOND PRIMAL, PERHAPS WROUGHT MORE FROM NOSTALGIA & MEMORIES OF A PAINFUL, YET STRANGELY TITILLATING PAST RATHER THAN ACTUAL FEELING. THERE’S SOMETHING TO BE SAID FOR THE CONNECTION BETWEEN SEX & VIOLENCE, OTHERWISE THE TWO WOULD NOT SO OFTEN BE COUPLED IN MEDIA & OUR LIVES.  
Rambo & Trautman fucked— Rambo like a twenty-some year old, & Trautman like a hustler. This fact couldn’t help but incite a certain kind of paranoia in the soldier— had Trautman seen men, people, besides him? The fact, he believed, was inevitable, & he felt himself childish for being so jealous over something not only unrealistic in the long term, but totally beyond his control, as well. 

“Let me suck your dick,” Rambo breathed after it was done.  
THE DEMAND WAS SPOKEN & THEN CARRIED OUT, AS TRAUTMAN SMILED, PUSHING HIM DOWN.

Rambo loved Trautman deeply, but did not consider himself a “fairy,” or whatever words flew around at the time to belittle gay men. Neither did Trautman— hell, Trautman didn’t think of himself as “gay” at all. He felt that men had urges— urges that needed to be fulfilled from time to time, & could be fulfilled easily by Rambo, always eager to please. FORESHADOWING: Rambo continually insisted he was done with war, over it, but came back like a fly to fruit if Trautman so much as opened his mouth or was in need of help. Trautman was grateful to Rambo for these many favours, certainly, but he took advantage of them, as he took advantage of the man now. 

After all was said & done, Rambo lie curled next to Trautman, eyes wide open & staring at nothing in particular as he lovingly stroked the Colonel’s short hair, letting it pass through his fingernails. “I wish men could marry men,” he murmured, not breaking face. “I would marry you, Colonel… if I were a woman, I’d marry you in a heartbeat.”  
The Colonel frowned, furrowing his brows. “Don’t you think that’s saying a bit much, John?”  
Rambo’s breath hitched, for the second time that day. A FULL YEAR OF NORMALCY— NO JAIL, NO ARMY, NO BULLSHIT, & TRAUTMAN MANAGED TO YET AGAIN WALTZ IN & RUIN IT. Or make the wait worth it… he couldn’t decide. His grip on Trautman’s hair tightened, & he turned it over, over, over… “Whadduyu…. Whadduyu mean ‘a bit much,’ sir?”   
SIR.  
“Rambo, don’t use that voice with me.”  
IT WAS A VOICE TOO FAMILIAR TO THE COLONEL— IT WAS THE VOICE FROM WHEN RAMBO RETURNED FROM TORTURE, THE VOICE FROM WHEN HE WATCHED ONE OF HIS CLOSEST FRIENDS DIE, THE VOICE FROM AFTER HE’D WREAKED HAVOC ON THE LITTLE TOWN OF HOPE & DESCRIBED IN DETAIL THE ATROCITIES OF THE WAR. Samuel Trautman never said this out loud, but he called that voice ‘the crying voice.’ & damn right he felt Rambo’s grip tighten. 

“It’s just—— you know, I might as well say it to you now. I’m married, John.”  
“Married?” THE ‘CRYING VOICE’ WAS STILL IN FULL EFFECT.  
( I NEVER GOT A WEDDING INVITE! ) - THE INTERNAL MONOLOGUE OF JOHN J. RAMBO AS HE FELT ANY HOPES OF A FUTURE WITH SAMUEL TRAUTMAN BEING CRUSHED TO BITS.   
“Yes, John— married. I wanted to settle down a bit before retiring… I have a really lovely wife— French girl, forty-three. Nicest personality you ever will meet.” He bit his lip as he felt the nails dig in harder. “John, please… be a man.”  
“Easy for you to say,” Rambo muttered, staring ahead blankly. HE HATED THIS! HE COULD WATCH A MAN SPLATTER TO PIECES, HAVE THE BLOOD & GORE LAND ON HIM, & BE UNAFFECTED!!! BUILDINGS COULD BURN & HE WOULDN’T BAT AN EYE! & YET, WHEN THE MAN HE LOVED CONFESSED TO BEING MARRIED, HE CHOKED?! WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO THE MACHO MAN, THE MUSCLE-BOUND MOUNTAIN OF MANLINESS EVERY MAN, GAY OR STRAIGHT, IDOLISED?   
Forty-three. The realisation dawned that this French woman was the same age as him, & it did nothing to make him feel any better. 

“Easy for me to say,” Trautman repeated— not in a mocking manner, but rather, defeated, as he managed to get out from under Rambo’s grip, sitting up. He began to put his clothes back on. “Look, Rambo, I’m sorry; I— well, I didn’t know I meant so much to you. Why didn’t you just tell me back in the seventies—— hell, even the early eighties would have been fine!” PINNING THE BLAME ON RAMBO WHEN THE FAULT WAS IN FACT HIS: A COMMON TACTIC OF MANIPULATION.  
Rambo bit his thumb between his teeth. “I figured you woulda sorta figured it out yourself.”  
“How so?”  
“Well, I mean— I, I risked my ass for you more than once, you know… kept comin’ back to you, like some… like some fuckin’ dog… just thought you’d know, I guess.”  
Samuel sighed, resting a hand on John’s calf, which flinched slightly at his touch. “This is the real world, John. There’s no time for guessing——”

“& there’s no time for love," Rambo interrupted.

Trautman looked at him with a slightly concerned expression for a moment— Rambo’s fine lines & signs of age seemed to disappear, if not just for a moment, & Samuel swore he saw that scared young man in the trenches again, biting his thumb to reject reality. “You’ve been living in a dream, John… you must remember, dreams are ugly things, & only serve to blind you from reality.”

He patted him one more time before he got up, adjusting his tie. Rambo didn’t budge. “Well, John, I’ll be leaving… I hope to see you at the retirement party; you’ll have the chance to meet my wife— Anabelle; I forget if I told you or not.”   
“You didn’t.”  
Samuel smiled a wry smile, then left, gently closing the door behind him.

SAMUEL TRAUTMAN UNDERESTIMATED JOHN RAMBO’S EMOTIONAL RANGE & CAPACITY DUE TO THE FACT THAT THE MAN TENDED TO CONCEAL HIS SOFTER SELF UNDER THE MACHO FRONT, DECEIVING THE WORLD, & EVEN HIMSELF, AT TIMES. BUT WHAT TRAUTMAN DID NOT KNOW WAS THIS: ONCE THERE WERE NO EYES ON HIM, NO FOUNDATION FOR HIM TO LIE ON, THE MACHO MAN SHATTERED, LEAVING BEHIND AN EMOTIONAL HUSK.

Forth from this emotional husk rolled a tear, glistening as it traveled down John Rambo’s cheek— & then another, & another, & another.   
JOHN WISHED TO DROWN.   
SAMUEL FIGURED HE WAS FINE.

JOHN DID NOT ATTEND SAMUEL’S RETIREMENT PARTY.  
SAMUEL WONDERED WHY.

JOHN’S HOUSE BURNED DOWN ON A PARTICULARLY HOT DAY IN THE JULY OF 1990; HE MOVED TO WASHINGTON—

—THE IDEA INSPIRED BY THE ARRIVAL OF A HUMBLE LITTLE LETTER IN THE MAIL, ANOTHER HOMAGE TO HIS PAST & A NEW BODY FOR HIS LONESOME HEART TO CLING ONTO : SIGNED, MITCH ROGERS.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This was my first (& only thus far) fan-fiction, so it was a fun write-up. Regardless, I hope you liked it! Sorry if the formatting's a little wonky; I pasted directly from Google Docs.


End file.
